#Americans #Jews
Chloris lay off the flapper stuff; What’s fit for Pholoë, a fluff, Is not for Ibycus’s wife— A woman at your time of life! Ignore, old dame, such pleasures a…
(An Apartmental Ditty.) Mine be a flat beside the Hill; A vendor’s cry shall soothe my ear A landlord shall present his bill At least a dozen times a year.
I rise and applaud, in the patriot… Whenever (as often) I hear The palpitanat strains of “The St… I shout and cheer. And also, to show my unbound devot…
William, it was, I think, three y… As I recall, one cool October mor… (You have The Tribune files; I t… I gave you warning). I said, in well-selected words and…
‘Scorn not the sonnet.’ Well, I r… I would not scorn a rondeau, villa… Ballade, sestina, triolet, rondel, Or e’en a quatrain, humble and for… An so it made my Pegasus to trot
Whenever the penner of this pome Regards a lovely country home, He sighs, in words not insincere, “I think I’d like to live out her… And when the builder of this ditty
It was a summer evening; Old Kaspar was at home, Sitting before his cottage door— Like in the Southey pome— And near him, with a magazine,
Swift was sweet on Stella; Poe had his Lenore; Burns’ fancy turned to Nancy And a dozen more. Poe was quite a trifler;
All stark and cold the merchant la… All cold and stark lay he. And who hath killed the fair merch… Now tell the truth to me. Oh, I have killed this fair merch…
The rich man has his motor-car, His country and his town estate. He smokes a fifty-cent cigar And jeers at Fate. He frivols through the livelong da…
“Gentle Jane was as good as gold,… To borrow a line from Mr. Gilbert… She hated War with a hate untold, She was a pacifistic filbert. If you said “Perhaps”—she’d leave…
Oh, some may sing of the surging s… of the raging main; Or tell of the taffrail blown away… hurricane. With an oh, of the feel of the sal…
INSPIRED BY READING M… PRINTED IN THE NEW YOR… Though earnest and industrious, I still am unillustrious; No papers empty purses
Tell me not, in doctored numbers, Life is but a name for work! For the labour that encumbers Me I wish that I could shirk. Life is phony! Life is rotten!
Shall I, lying in a grot, Die because the day is hot? Or declare I can’t endure Such a torrid temperature? Be it hotter than the flames
